


A Queen and Her Knight

by daniko



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/F, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-20
Updated: 2013-08-20
Packaged: 2017-12-24 03:19:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/934684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daniko/pseuds/daniko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I'm all done, let's go. I can't wait to see the kind of idiot who wins this season's tournament.” / “Considering this winner you speak of will be my new bodyguard, let us wish he's not an idiot, yes?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Queen and Her Knight

**Author's Note:**

> First, there was [this post](http://daniskatra.tumblr.com/post/54435833639/a-queen-and-her-knight-i-actually-really-like), then [this one](http://daniskatra.tumblr.com/post/55890264445/elvishness-inspired-by-this-post-hehe-used-ref), and suddenly I had a little ficlet written about it. Many thanks to [itschristaleigh](http://itschristaleigh.livejournal.com/) for beta-reading. Enjoy!

From the balcony of Lady Lydia's room, one could see as far as the outer edges of the capital-city Beacon. The castle was said to have been built by the very first Lord Hale and it spanned all three hills in the tundra, although the city stretched far and wide through the fields, going so far as the freezing sea. The empire stretched far beyond the water, to the deserts of rock and sand, most of it won and kept by a succession of Lords and their army of wolf-like warriors and amazons.

Old songs held that to be a Hale Wolf was to commit, by ritual of blood, to honour your Lord in exchange for strength and health. Most people dismissed these rumours as tales from fanciful matrons, immortalised by wandering bards. Lydia had agreed, once upon a time, until she had seen her husband grow claws and teeth and turn towards her on their wedding night with a blue glare in his eyes, bright with bloodlust and desire.

Her wounds had long healed and Lydia and the king now had an arrangement: he wouldn't touch a red hair on her head and she wouldn't poison him to his death with monkswood. Lydia had made the midwife, Melissa, swear before the Court that Lydia was barren, in order to quiet the Councilor Lords who demanded an heir. Of course, after that she had no choice but to strongly suggest that Lord Whittemore keep an ear out for assassination plots, and so far all of those had failed.

Just when the sun finally peeked over the horizon and bathed the water and the fields in yellow, there came someone knocking at Lydia's door. Hesitating for a moment to check that the pouches of herbs, poultices and charms were securely hidden in the folds of her gown, Lydia said, “Enter.”

It was the kitchen boy with Lydia's breakfast.

The boy, who was of Lydia's same age, in fact, was the son of Commander Stilinski of the Royal Guard. His name was not Stiles, but that was what he was called on the Court by ill-intentioned, pretentious noblemen and women. They thrived on the fact that Commander Stilinski, a paragon of virtue and honour, could not have a sired a strong scion, but instead a runt of a boy, gangly and spastic, who could not hold a sword without the risk of impaling himself. Said boy was, at the moment, placing the tray with Lydia's breakfast carefully on the mahogany table in her antechamber, before he reached into his pocket, took out a handful of black dirt and blew on it, dusting Lydia's front door. He then spun thrice in place, whispering to himself. Lydia knew that no one who passed her door until they exited the room would be able to hear a word spoken by either of them.

“You look like an idiot,” she told him, crossing her arms and turning towards the balcony once again.

“The strength of my belief is associated to the superstition behind my actions,” he parroted, before adding snidely, “what's your excuse?” Lydia spared him a dismissive glance, which only made Stiles glower at Lydia. “You'll be expected soon, you should probably eat.”

“I'm not really hungry.”

“Then you mind if I—.” Stiles gestured to the heavy-laden tray and Lydia gestured her permission. Without pause, Stiles sat down at her table and began shoveling food into his mouth. “Sorry. Finstock says I'm not allowed any food until I finish cleaning the stables. I have settled for stealing some when he's not watching.”

“Charming,” Lydia acknowledged. Stiles rolled his eyes again, but kept eating. “Just hurry so we can be on our way.”

“Where's your maid?”

“Tried to kill me this morning, so I sent her back to my dear husband with the pattern of my nails written across her face,” Lydia replied, as she moved to her reading nook and stroked the tapestry hung on the wall. It showed five figures, a rising sun and a rain of blood against a depiction of the green fields she could see from the balcony. Lydia had weaved it herself last month. Behind her, there was pointed silence, so she half-turned towards Stiles. “What?”

“Don't you think you are a little too unconcerned by the fact that _your maid tried to kill you_?” Lydia shrugged nonchalantly and reached for some books to keep her hands busy. “And you hurt her. Good Lord above, Lydia, can't you play nice until we find a way out of here?”

“Hmmm,” she pretended to think about it, “no.”

“I swear to whoever is listening, you'll be the death of me. Literally. People will find out we're friends, that we practise magic together and then we'll be thrown into the flames together and your perfect face will be the last thing I see on this world and, let me tell you, I do _not_ want to die untouched.”

Lydia ignored him.

Stiles glared at her pointedly for a moment, before standing up and carelessly throwing his napkin on the table. “I'm all done, let's go. I can't wait to see the kind of idiot who wins this season's tournament.”

Lydia spared a last look in the mirror and, satisfied with her reflection, headed towards the door. “Considering this winner you speak of will be my new bodyguard, let us wish he's not an idiot, yes?” Without waiting for a reply, Lydia opened the door and Stiles had no choice but to fall silent. “I shall see you at supper time, yes?” Lydia rarely spent the evening meal with her husband.

Stiles bowed, even though there was nobody around. “Yes, my lady. I will be on time with supper.”

“You should probably go see to the stables, before Master Finstock talks to your father. With everyone at the tournament, you should have the privacy to finish your task quickly,” she told him meaningfully. Stiles rolled his eyes. He bowed again, shoved his hands in his pockets and walked away, whistling in the corridor, stopping to flirt with the maid leaving the king's rooms. Lydia sighed in exasperation after him, the precious idiot.

From her rooms to the arena was a twenty minute walk, but Lydia did not mind. Most knights would be up at dawn, ready for the first day of challenges; they would be vassals from neighbouring countries or from other cities in the empire, who wished to serve the Lord Hale and the city of Beacon. They would be of noble ancestry or wandering priests who wished to practise magic without persecution. Occasionally, there would be a particularly talented peasant.

The Royal tribune was placed on the end of the dueling tracks, after the main arena. The king; the High Councillor, Lord Alan Deaton; and the High Priestess, Lady Jennifer Blake, were already at their seats. Lydia walked to her place on the King's left and performed a curtsy, saying, “My liege.”

“My lady,” said the king. “I trust you slept . . . well?”

“Quite.”

At this point, the line of herald trumpeters started playing the opening theme of the tournament and the audience fell quiet. Lydia noticed how quite a few people from the city had come to watch. Likely, the rumour that the king would choose a personal bodyguard to gift Lydia with on her birthday had reached the public market. The participant knights arranged themselves into ten columns under the orders of Commander Stilinski, the esquires at their left. “ _All hail Lord Peter Hale of capital-city Beacon,_ ” announced the High Herald, “ _King Regent of Triskelion._ ” The crowd cheered as the knights knocked the hilt of their swords against their shields in tribute.

The king raised his hands in a gesture of appreciation, a charming smile on his lips. “I hearby declare the beginning of this season's Beacon Tournament.” The knights saluted. “Good luck to all.” The king sat down and glanced at Lydia. “See anything you like so far?”

Lydia hummed noncommittally. “Not as such, my liege, not yet.” Though she had. One of the knights had worn a silver armour with a [peculiar crest on the shield, of a snarling wolf and crossing arrows](http://teenwolf.wikia.com/wiki/Argent_Necklace%20). Lydia could almost have believed, if she were given to such flights of fancy, that this crest was a sign from the Lady, telling her to employ this knight against her very own Wolf-plight.

After the day's challenges, Lydia was much more inclined to believe in signs from above.

The knight she had noticed in the morning had shown remarkable ability. He was less built than the others, but showed outstanding agility and dexterity with a bow. And, not the least of it, Peter seemed to detest him, considering the way he kept glaring at the man, lips pursed in disapproval. This knight's esquire was a boy no older than Lydia and Stiles, with a shaggy head and a dimpled smile, which meant he was better taken care of than most and Lydia could appreciate a man who treated his inferiors properly. During lunch break, Peter introduced the knight as belonging to the Hunter Tribe, a clan of men and women who lived in the forest south of the Three Hills of Beacon.

The Hunter knight was the favourite by the end of the first round of challenges, even though he lost a few of his challenges, and this didn't change in the following days. The Hunter knight showed top points for archery and jousting, slightly worse results in unarmed combat and sword challenges, although he did quite well in the [melee](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Melee).

The final day was usually a day of celebration, since most knights would be out of the competition and, more often than not, happy with their exhibitions. Only the five best ranked knights would engage in a series of combats for the Champion title. Lydia watched the single combats avidly, more than pleased with the Hunter knight's performance, not to mention the king's growing mistrust towards said knight. At this point, Lydia would be more than glad to deal with any idiot, if only he could unnerve the king in this way. (It was part of the reason she entertained Jackson.)

“I believe he might just win, my Lord,” Lady Jennifer was saying, a confused frown upon her face.

Peter growled. “Just how did he entered the Tournament?” It was a days-old argument. “I do not allow Hunters in the city, but if he wins, I will have no other choice.”

“Do not fret, my Lord,” said Deaton. “If he does win, we shall take care of it.” Lydia didn't doubt he would, though not necessarily in a way to suit Peter's purposes, but wisely remained silent. Jennifer seemed to agree with her, going by the poisoning look she spared the councillor.

At length, the Hunter knight seemed to have the advantage. He won with grace the first round of combats. The final combat would be against Sir Mahealani, who was by no means unqualified, but who lacked aggressivity. Lydia considered him a friend and she knew Sir Mahealani wouldn't harm his opponent just for the sake of the sport and, without relying on his superior strength, he would hardly defeat the Hunter knight. As a final combat, it couldn't have been better. Both Sir Mahealani and the Hunter knight showed remarkable skill to Lydia's attentive eye and she would be well served with either of them as a bodyguard, she was sure. No doubt it was why Sir Mahealani had entered the contest in the first place. They offered a beautiful show to the audience and, when the Hunter knight finally tricked Sir Mahealani into losing his weapon and his footing, the crowd's noise was deafening with cheer for both of them.

Sir Mahealani offered a dimpled smile at the audience as he surrendered and there was more than enough youths swooning at his expertise and charm. The Hunter knight scratched the crest in Sir Mahealani's breastplate as a symbolic final blow and bowed. It was honourable. The king hated it.

So, Lydia was more than a little satisfied with the outcome, when she finally exited the tribune and the five knights came forth in the arena to receive their medals. She offered each a curtsy and a kiss, as was expected of her, and the king placed the medals around their necks. When the Hunter knight stepped forward, he had still not taken off his helmet. Lydia realised no one had ever seen this man's face. He probably had pimples, she thought with some exasperation.

“My lady,” said the knight, voice rough with exertion, but softer than Lydia had expected. He might be younger than she had originally thought. He might even be a child! It would explain why he still hadn't taken off his helmet.

Peter seemed to think so, too, because he narrowed his eyes at the knight, and said with saccharine sweetness, “I shall have to demand a look at the face of such a brave warrior.”

The knight stifled a sigh and bowed down to one knee. He sheathed his sword and removed the helmet with dexterous movements, settling it under his arm and looking up to the king. “My liege.” A curtain of soft black hair fell down his shoulders and Lydia watched as her own surprise was mirrored in the king's face and the rest of their audience, for the Hunter knight was no man at all, but a young maiden. “My lady.”

Lydia smiled at the king. “Well, my liege, it seems I have chosen my birthday present.” She turned to the knight. “What name shall I use, honourable warrior?”

The knight turned her dimpled smile on Lydia. “Argent, my lady. Lady Allison Argent.”

**Author's Note:**

>  ~~Don't forget Peter's nurse was called Jennifer. Don't think I'm being mean to Ms Blake.~~ I really, really thought they were going the “beautiful dead girlfriend, oh the angst” route, seeing as we'd already seen the “betrayed by the hot girlfriend who is actually evil, oh the angst” one before, but okay. We can work with whatever Jeff throws at us. :) Furthermore, there is the threat of non-con, but it is not followed through. Just in case that's a problem for anyone.


End file.
